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THI WISLEY;AN ARGUS.
TIE COLLEGE PAPER.
BLOOMINGTON, ILL., APRIL 24, 1896. No. 15.
CHARLES DICKENS.
BY SHULER CRAFT.
History is not all made on the tented field. The
warrior is not the only nor is he the greatest benefac-tor
of mankind. In each walk of life are many who
have helped to make the world better, None, how-ever,
have contributed more to the happiness and con-tent
of humanity than authors; and among these Charles
Dickens stands pre-eminent,
His natal day, February 7, 1812, was a happy one
for England. Though the son of poor parents, and
having scanty education and altogether very few ad-vantages,
he rose by his own unaided exertions, to the
very pinnacle of fame.
He began his literary career by writing short stories
for the magazines; and, having succeeded remarkably
in this direction, he took a bolder step and started
"Pickwick Papers," the unprecedented popularity of
which at once established his reputation. After this
his success was uninterrupted. Other works followed
in quick succession, till, in the midst of the production
of ' The Mystery of Edwin Drood," the author's hand
grew weary, and his loving heart was stilled:
"=And in seclusion and remote from men,
The wizard hand lay cold,
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,
And left the tale half told.
And who shall lift that wand of magic power
And the lost clue regain ?
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Unfinished must remain."
It is a striking fact that altogether Dickens has rep-resented
over fourteen hundred characters. They
exhibit all phases of English life. The most exquisite
humor-the most touching pathos, the most cringing
hypocrisy--the haughtiest pride, the lowest depths of
crime-the highest goodness, were all painted by a
master hand. Was ever anyone funnier than the in-imitable
Sam Weller, the devoted henchman of a
master scarcely less laughable? Did anyone ever
awaken the deepest sympathy of which the heart is
capable as did Little Nell? And how we loathe
Uriah Heep! What a contempt we feel for one so
haughty as Mr. Dombey! A villain was never better
painted than was Sikes,, nor transcendent goodness
ever more beautifully depicted than in the character
of Agnes. And yet all these are perfectly true to
life; they are as people whom we see around us
every day.
In description and narration he was as skillful as in
the delineation of character. He took the ordinary
things of life and made them so delightfully interest-ing
that we regret to see him change his theme. His
tragic force is unexcelled. Before some dread event
each sentence lends to the pervading air of dark fore-boding
until one's nerves are at the highest tension:
as when Ralph Nickleby, the very embodiment of
thwarted villainy, slinks home to his death: "The
night was dark and a cold wind blew, driving the clouds
furiously and fast before it. There was one black,
gloomy mass that seemed to follow him: not hurrying
in the wild chase with the others, but lingering sul-lenly
behind and gliding darkly and stealthily on. He
often looked back at this, and more than once stopped
to let it pass on; but somehow, when he went forward
again, it was still behind him, coming mournfully and
slowly up like a shadowy funeral train." And finally,
when the time is ripe for the perpetration of the dark
deed, with what a real horror the reader hurries over
the lines! For instance, the scene in " Great Expec-
VOL. II.

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Full Text

THI WISLEY;AN ARGUS.
TIE COLLEGE PAPER.
BLOOMINGTON, ILL., APRIL 24, 1896. No. 15.
CHARLES DICKENS.
BY SHULER CRAFT.
History is not all made on the tented field. The
warrior is not the only nor is he the greatest benefac-tor
of mankind. In each walk of life are many who
have helped to make the world better, None, how-ever,
have contributed more to the happiness and con-tent
of humanity than authors; and among these Charles
Dickens stands pre-eminent,
His natal day, February 7, 1812, was a happy one
for England. Though the son of poor parents, and
having scanty education and altogether very few ad-vantages,
he rose by his own unaided exertions, to the
very pinnacle of fame.
He began his literary career by writing short stories
for the magazines; and, having succeeded remarkably
in this direction, he took a bolder step and started
"Pickwick Papers," the unprecedented popularity of
which at once established his reputation. After this
his success was uninterrupted. Other works followed
in quick succession, till, in the midst of the production
of ' The Mystery of Edwin Drood," the author's hand
grew weary, and his loving heart was stilled:
"=And in seclusion and remote from men,
The wizard hand lay cold,
Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen,
And left the tale half told.
And who shall lift that wand of magic power
And the lost clue regain ?
The unfinished window in Aladdin's tower
Unfinished must remain."
It is a striking fact that altogether Dickens has rep-resented
over fourteen hundred characters. They
exhibit all phases of English life. The most exquisite
humor-the most touching pathos, the most cringing
hypocrisy--the haughtiest pride, the lowest depths of
crime-the highest goodness, were all painted by a
master hand. Was ever anyone funnier than the in-imitable
Sam Weller, the devoted henchman of a
master scarcely less laughable? Did anyone ever
awaken the deepest sympathy of which the heart is
capable as did Little Nell? And how we loathe
Uriah Heep! What a contempt we feel for one so
haughty as Mr. Dombey! A villain was never better
painted than was Sikes,, nor transcendent goodness
ever more beautifully depicted than in the character
of Agnes. And yet all these are perfectly true to
life; they are as people whom we see around us
every day.
In description and narration he was as skillful as in
the delineation of character. He took the ordinary
things of life and made them so delightfully interest-ing
that we regret to see him change his theme. His
tragic force is unexcelled. Before some dread event
each sentence lends to the pervading air of dark fore-boding
until one's nerves are at the highest tension:
as when Ralph Nickleby, the very embodiment of
thwarted villainy, slinks home to his death: "The
night was dark and a cold wind blew, driving the clouds
furiously and fast before it. There was one black,
gloomy mass that seemed to follow him: not hurrying
in the wild chase with the others, but lingering sul-lenly
behind and gliding darkly and stealthily on. He
often looked back at this, and more than once stopped
to let it pass on; but somehow, when he went forward
again, it was still behind him, coming mournfully and
slowly up like a shadowy funeral train." And finally,
when the time is ripe for the perpetration of the dark
deed, with what a real horror the reader hurries over
the lines! For instance, the scene in " Great Expec-
VOL. II.